


Surrender

by usuallysunny



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Control, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Jon Snow Knows Something, Jon Snow is King in the North, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Mentions of past abuse, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, R Plus L Equals J, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, hint - it's cunnilingus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:54:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24375367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usuallysunny/pseuds/usuallysunny
Summary: Sansa knows Jon is different from her other husbands. He’s kind and patient and good. Still, their marriage is a transaction and her capacity to enjoy being touched has long been burned out of her.So when she comes to him on their wedding night holding a scrap of leather, asking to take back the control Ramsay had stolen from her, she hopes he’ll say yes.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 17
Kudos: 346





	Surrender

**Author's Note:**

> What's a bank holiday weekend in lockdown without a little Jonsa porn?🤷🏼♀️ 
> 
> This is (yet another) arranged marriage AU which references Sansa's traumatic past with Ramsay, so please keep that in mind/read with caution :) 
> 
> Enjoy!

Jon had been quiet all day.

He didn’t speak as she approached him in the Godswood. He didn’t speak as he wrapped a cloak of Targaryen colours around her shoulders, placing her under his protection. He opened his mouth only to mutter—

_"I am hers, and she is mine."_

—and then he was silent again.

He had been quiet as they sat at the head of the table in the Great Hall, the Northern lords and ladies dancing and drinking around them.

 _At least some are happy about our union,_ Sansa had thought bitterly, because her new husband — sitting beside her with his jaw locked tight — certainly didn’t seem to be.

Truthfully, she was quite alright with it. Her dreams of marrying for love had been dashed long ago, trampled into the snow as she walked towards Ramsay Bolton. She no longer dreamed of a golden prince, no longer dreamed of a man at all, and if she _had_ to marry to secure the North, Jon was an acceptable compromise.

 _When you’re old enough,_ she still heard her father’s gruff Northern brogue, _I’ll make you a match with someone who’s worthy of you. Someone brave, gentle and strong._

Jon was all of those things and more. Of course, he wasn’t what her father had in mind, but he was a good man nonetheless. He would never hurt her. He would keep her safe. He would probably happily spend the rest of their lives together without touching her once, if that was what she wanted.

She had never considered him a brother, so it was easy now not to see him as one.

She knew that Jon found it more difficult. The revelation that he was a Targaryen, made of fire and blood, was still very new. He was a dragon raised by wolves and Ned Stark’s honour was a difficult thing to shake off.

He was of the North... and Northern men didn’t touch their sisters.

This was clearly how he still thought of her; he was withdrawn and uneasy with his affections, and she knew tonight would be a difficult one.

He was quiet again as they sat in her chambers, the fire casting half shadows under his eyes and in all the right places.

She thought he looked brooding and sullen and very, very beautiful. She knew her husband was an attractive man and a King beyond that. She’d seen and heard kitchenmaids and noble women alike fawn over him, blushing prettily under his attentions. He knew all their names, always smiled at them politely, and he was known throughout the North for his kindness.

But he was still a man.

A man who had strong hands, hands that had been stained with blood. He might not have enjoyed it the way Joffrey and Ramsay had, but he was still a killer — and she was still afraid.

“I will not touch you,” like he could read her mind, she heard him talking, his voice low and pained, “this night — or any night. I will _always_ keep you safe. You know that, don’t you?”

She tried to smile, but it felt twitchy and tense.

“I told you before, you can’t protect me. No-one can protect anyone,” she reminded him of the words she had spoken before the Battle for Winterfell, “Daenerys only allowed the North to be free on the provision that we provide her heirs. To do that, you will _have_ to touch me.” 

The Dragon Queen now sat on the Iron Throne, a fact that neither grieved nor pleased Sansa. She didn’t care. All she cared about was the North, that her people would never have to bend to a Southern ruler ever again. Daenerys hadn’t been happy about it, hadn’t wanted to relinquish control of her Northernmost kingdom, but Jon wouldn’t agree to any less.

He was the only man left in the world whose children would have Targaryen blood, the only one who could further the barren Queen’s line.

More than that, Daenerys only demanded two, and any other children Sansa would bear would inherit the North. It meant that one day, Sansa’s children might rule both in Kings Landing and Winterfell.

She watched him sigh, running a tired hand over his face.

“I know what Ramsay did to you,” he murmured, a dark expression sweeping over his face, “I don’t want you to be reminded of it. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You would never hurt me,” she fired back instantly, because there were many things she wasn't sure of anymore, but she was sure of _this,_ “I know that. But if you _are_ truly worried about my past… I have been thinking about something that may make it easier.”

He looked at her then, his brow arched in curiosity.

She stood, walking over to the dresser before her bravery waned. She opened one of the drawers and pulled out two leather belts. She ran her fingers over one of the cool buckles, remembering how the idea had sparked to life one day while she was mending one of his battle-torn tunics. She had tugged on the leather, felt it strong under her hands, and she suddenly knew how she could reclaim some of that strength for herself.

She turned to face him.

“What do you have there?”

She swallowed, turning the scrap of material over in her hands.

“Ramsay…” she briefly closed her eyes against the name, almost scared it might bring him kicking and screaming back to life, “he often held me down. I felt powerless.”

She could see Jon’s jaw clench, the movement of his throat as he swallowed.

He looked angry, and she continued speaking.

“You don’t make me feel powerless,” she felt like she should say, “you make me feel like your equal. You’re always there for me and when I talk, you _listen,_ and you always ask for my opinion. But I still flinch when you come too close – and the thought of intimacy scares me.”

He didn’t look offended but he did look melancholy and sad, and his mouth twitched under his beard.

“What can I do to help?”

She was glad he asked and her pale eyes flickered to the leather straps in her hands.

“I don’t want to hurt you like he hurt me,” she clarified, “I don’t want _you_ to feel powerless. I don’t want this to be about him at all. But I thought maybe… if I could use these to keep you… _still_ … it might make me feel easier about the whole thing. I would feel in control.”

His brow arched, his eyes flitting from her face to the belts and back again.

“You want to tie me up?”

She could have sworn his voice sounded darker — like the idea _pleased_ him — but that couldn’t possibly be the case, so she shook it off.

“If you don’t mind,” she whispered, her cheeks exploding into heat, “your Grace.”

It only felt respectful, especially considering what she was asking of him, but he just stood and shook his head.

“Jon,” he corrected, taking a step towards her, “you are my wife, not my subject. We best get used to the fact.”

_My wife._

It sounded so strange on his tongue.

“Can you see me as your wife?” she questioned, her voice laced with unease, “I was your sister for so long.”

He grimaced slightly, looking unsure.

“I suppose we’ll find out.”

Once they started, it would be easy enough to tell. She was inexperienced, but she knew how a man’s body reacted when he was aroused. Her eyes flickered to his breeches without her permission and she wondered if she’d be pleased or mortified should his cock harden and swell beneath them.

“Will you try then?” she asked, “will you let me…”

Her voice trailed off, her cheeks heating up again.

He gently touched his hand to one, his thumb swiping over her cheekbone, and somehow that made it worse.

“Aye,” he murmured, “whatever makes you feel comfortable.”

She nodded, feeling strangely detached, like they were discussing the wheat stores rather than how they were going to make love for the first time.

She didn’t ask him to kiss her.

She still remembered the perfunctory, dutiful kiss he had left on her lips earlier that evening, after they spoke their vows under the weirwood tree. She still felt it, brushing like a summer breeze, something warm and soft like home.

Instead, she asked him to undress.

He nodded shortly, a guarded expression flitting over his brooding face.

She watched him as he did so, removing his belts, tunic and shirt until he was standing before her in only his breeches. She had seen him bare-chested before, when she brought him a newly mended shirt to wear or helped clean his wounds after battle, but that was back when he was just her brother — _cousin_ — and heat hadn’t been unfurling between them.

She had seen his scars before, angry and curved over his heart, but they looked almost purple up close in the half-candlelight. 

She timidly touched her fingers to his stomach, noticing how his muscles twitched under her touch.

“It’s alright,” he murmured at the sad look on her face, “it doesn’t hurt anymore.”

She smiled, thinking that not quite true. Perhaps they didn't hurt physically, but she knew he still carried the pain of his mens’ betrayal.

“Take off the rest and lay down,” she whispered, noticing how his eyes seemed to flash slightly darker, “please.”

She turned away while he did it, her heart in her throat. She heard the shuffling of clothes, the thud as they fell to the floor, and she closed her eyes and counted to a full minute before she turned around.

And there he was, naked in-front of her for the first time.

She swallowed nervously, her eyes finding his cool expression before they swept across his collarbone, down his chest to his strong thighs. Finally, they landed on his flaccid cock, that piece of meat that could cause so much damage, hurt so much.

She felt a shudder pass through her, suddenly very cold, and she had to look to his face again to feel safe.

She took a shaky breath and climbed atop the furs, the leather straps still in her hands.

“It’s okay,” he murmured again when she hesitated, and he lifted his wrists to the bedframe, “you’re in control, Sansa.”

A strange heat sparked between her thighs.

He looked so trusting, so soft and gentle, and she crawled over his body until she was sitting on his chest.

Her cheeks flamed into heat again as he watched her and she gently tied him to the frame.

His dark eyes flickered to each wrist before he looked at her as she scooted back to sit on his thighs.

“Alright?”

Her voice was quiet, lower than she’d ever heard it, and it felt like she was outside of her body. She was floating far away, strangely disconnected, and it was _his_ voice that brought her back to reality.

“Aye, I’m alright.”

His voice was lower still, a gruff Northern brogue that sounded like home. _Safe_ , she was safe, and she could feel his battle-honed muscles coiled tight underneath her. She thought he looked _beautiful_ like this, spread out and vulnerable for her, bathed in the warm glow of candlelight.

He gave a little tug on the restraints.

The steel of the buckles must have bitten into his wrists, but he didn’t say anything.

She took her time exploring him then.

Her hands ran over his chest until they didn’t shake anymore. All the while, he merely watched her and she got the impression he was keeping himself under control. His cock remained limp between his legs but his jaw was clenched tight and his muscles twitched underneath her.

He didn’t want to scare her or overwhelm her, she realised, and her heart swelled and ached.

“You’re so pretty,” she breathed in awe, tracing the crescent-shaped scar over his heart.

His mouth twitched under his beard.

“I think I would prefer handsome,” he quipped, “but I’ll take it.”

“You’re that too,” she blushed.

He smiled, his tongue peeking out to wet his lips as his eyes drifted over her.

“I’m going to take my shift off now,” she said quietly, more to prepare herself than him.

He took a breath and nodded, his jaw clenching tight again.

Her hands shook as she lifted the shift over her head, letting it flutter to the stone floor.

His eyes darkened, his chest rising and falling as his breath quickened.

“Sansa…” he breathed.

She closed her eyes against the way he said her name — all low, Northern gruff.

Her breasts felt too heavy, her inner thighs curiously slippery, and when she opened her eyes again, his own were staring intently at the thatch of red between her thighs.

“I know I have scars,” she mumbled, one of her hands reflexively travelling to her stomach, her finger tracing a patch of raised skin where Ramsay’s blade had sliced her. His own fingers twitched above the belts, as though he wanted to move her hands away, stop her from hiding, “I know you might not want me, even if I wasn’t your sister…”

“You’re not my sister,” he bit back immediately, “you’re my wife — and the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

She smiled, shifting slightly from where she sat atop his thighs, and she felt that wetness between her own again.

She’d never felt that before — didn’t even know what it was.

She kept one hand on his stomach as the other trailed between her legs. She lifted her hips slightly to swipe two fingers across her slit. She then held them in-front of her curious eyes. They were glistening in the candlelight, some sort of sticky substance coating them, and when she scissored them, the substance spread like string between them.

Jon averted his eyes and made a noise, halfway between a whimper and a groan.

Her eyes snapped to him.

“What is this?”

He cleared his throat, looking like he was in pain.

“It means you’re wet.”

“Wet?”

He clenched his jaw again.

“It’s something your body produces when you’re… aroused,” he said, “it makes coupling easier… prepares you for me.”

She arched a brow, sliding the juices between her index and middle fingers and her thumb.

“For your cock?”

He _definitely_ groaned this time.

“Don’t say that, Sansa.”

“Why?”

He shook his head and didn’t answer the question directly.

“Will you come up here?” he asked, “I want to make you feel good.”

Her brows drew into a frown but she relented, her eyes drifting to the leather binds to remind herself she was still in control. She shifted up his body until she was sitting on his lower stomach.

“Higher.”

Her frown deepened and she shuffled up again until she was on his chest. She blushed at how close his face was to her womanhood. He must have been able to smell her, to feel her heat, the wetness that she could feel dripping onto his chest, leaving a glistening smear in its wake.

His eyes only darkened and his voice was lower when he said:

“ _Higher_.”

He shifted as far down as the binds would let him, his head now on the pillow.

Her cheeks exploded into heat when she finally understood what he meant.

She thought about saying no, but she _wanted_ to feel good. She was safe, she was in control, and if he wanted to show her pleasure, who was she to say no? _Why_ would she say no?

She shuffled until her thighs were bracketing his head and she hovered over his mouth.

“What do you mean to do?” she asked.

She glanced down and could just see his eyes, his pupils blown to black.

“It’s called the Lord’s Kiss,” he said simply, and then he lifted his head off the pillow and gave her one long lick.

Sansa gasped, her back bowing and her hands flying to the headboard.

He licked a hot stripe from her soaked entrance to her clit, his mouth opening wide so as to not miss a drop of her juices. She whimpered, her thighs shaking around his head, and her fingers tightened around the headboard. He took his time, wringing out her pleasure, playing her like an instrument.

 _Gods,_ he was good at this. She didn’t have any experience, Ramsay would _never_ have touched her like this, but she couldn’t imagine anyone could be better at it.

She spread her legs wider, working on instinct. She lowered herself to his mouth, rolling her hips slightly until she reached some semblance of a rhythm, and pleasure sparked from her head to her toes when she heard him groan into her cunt.

The vibration, as well as the knowledge that he was _enjoying_ this, was the best thing she had ever felt. She could hardly believe the pleasure, so intense it was almost blinding, and she arched her hips and ground herself harder against his willing mouth. He let out a thick growl, little grunts falling from his mouth as he licked and sucked at her.

He lapped at her lazily and she noticed his wrists flexing against the binds. It looked like he wanted his hands on her, was bowing under the restraint, and she gave a loud moan.

“Jon,” she groaned his name, her head tipping back, and he growled in reply.

She began to ride his face, using the strength in her thighs to aid her. She felt a strange pressure start to build in the pit of her stomach and she released one of her hands from the headboard so she could turn her body.

Glancing behind her, she whimpered at what she saw.

He was fully erect now, hard and throbbing and weeping from the tip. It sat against his taut stomach, twitching slightly as he ate her out, and if she had any doubts that he wanted her before, they faded with every pulse of his rock hard cock.

She returned her gaze straight ahead, her thighs starting to tremble.

Her juices dripped from her and ran down his chin, coating his lips and soaking his beard. He stiffened his tongue, pushing it inside her, and his head bobbed as he began to fuck her with it.

“Please,” she sobbed, begging for nothing in particular, and desire strangled her throat.

“Hold yourself open,” he grunted, returning his attention to her clit.

She did as she was told, one hand fixed against the headboard and the other flying to her cunt. She spread her lower lips with her index and middle fingers, her hips bowing as he nibbled and sucked at her clit. His wrists pulled against the restraints again, the metal of the buckles clinking as he tugged and growled like an animal, his grunts muffled by her cunt.

She felt herself gush when she came, heard his groan as he swallowed everything she gave him. She practically sobbed with it, her vision whitening, and he rode her through it, lapping at her lazily as she came back down to earth.

She shuddered, her body shaking in the afterglow, and climbed off his face.

She settled on his thighs again and saw him lick his lips, his eyes black.

 _“Gods,”_ she breathed, still shaking.

“Good?”

She laughed incredulously, thinking it quite the understatement. He smirked cooly, his mouth and chin glistening from her. She felt sated and happy and _exhausted,_ but his cock was twitching between her thighs and desire sparked to life inside her again.

She almost felt emotional; she never imagined she’d feel desire again.

“What can I do for you?” she asked, wanting to return the favour, “what feels good?”

Her eyes were focused on his cock and it jumped against his stomach under her attention.

He didn’t answer straight away.

It took her looking at him, demanding a response, for him to finally choke out—

“When you put your mouth on it.”

She swallowed, not sure if she wanted to do that. Unlike what Jon had just done for her, Sansa knew this act. Ramsay had made her do it many times, pushed her head and made her gag. She had hated it, hated the powerlessness, the fear, the sour, salty taste he forced down her throat when he was finished.

Jon read her reaction.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, “you don’t have to do that. You never have to—” he paused for a moment, his eyes briefly falling shut as though he were irritated by his own reticence, “—we do whatever you want to do, Sansa. This is all for you.”

She considered it for a moment.

“I want to fuck you,” she said — because she’d only ever _been_ fucked and there was a difference.

His already black eyes darkened and they swept from her face to her glistening cunt and back again.

“Aye, fuck me,” he groaned.

She braced her hands on his chest, lowering her cunt to his cock. She rode it for a few moments, sliding back and forth, revelling in the way his eyes fluttered and his jaw tightened with restraint.

“I’ve never done it before,” she warned quietly, the fat head of his cock pushing deliciously against her pulsing clit.

His fingers twitched, the skin of his wrists reddening under the steel of the buckles.

“You’re a clever girl,” he said gruffly, “just do what feels right.”

She nodded, trusting herself to work on instinct.

She took his engorged cock in her hand, twisting her wrist around it a few times, before she lined the weeping head with her entrance.

She held her breath as she sunk down onto his thick, hard length.

“Fuck,” Jon muttered under his breath, tipping his head back.

Her eyes drifted over the strong, corded muscles of his throat and she started to set a steady pace.

She whimpered as she slid up and down his length, stunned at how good he felt inside her, how well he filled her.

“I think you rather like being tied up, my _King_ ,” she whispered, something dark sweeping over her, “being at my mercy.”

He was a warrior and a leader, but sometimes he suffocated under the weight of his Kingdom, and perhaps he liked relinquishing control for a little while.

“Yes,” he hissed, his hips bucking up in an attempt to fuck her harder, “ _fuck_ yes _,_ you’re doing so well. You’re so perfect.”

She pushed him down with a hand on his chest, setting the pace herself. She fucked him harder, swirling her hips in little circles, and made sure to grind herself against his pelvis every time she sunk down and buried herself to the hilt. His arms tugged against the restraints again, his teeth digging into his pouty bottom lip, and his chest flushed and shone with a thin layer of sweat.

She felt his cock pulsing, jerking and swelling inside her. She rode him harder, faster, molten heat pooling in the pit of her stomach again.

“Kiss me,” he groaned, much to her surprise, “ _please —_ kiss me, wife.”

_Wife._

The word stirred something to life inside her and she leaned down, her hair falling like a red curtain around them.

His cock continued to slide in and out of her as she brushed her lips hotly against his.

“That—” he bit out just as she was about to take his mouth, making her pause a hair's breadth away, “ _—_ that wasn’t an order.”

She smiled softly, his kindness making her ache.

“I know,” she said gently — and then she kissed him.

He returned it eagerly, his tongue swiping across her bottom lip. She blossomed for him, opening her mouth and tangling her tongue with his. It felt warm and easy and natural, sensations she had buried since the day he caught her in his arms at Castle Black rushing to the surface.

He swallowed her moan, his teeth tugging at her bottom lip.

"Jon,” she whimpered, a shudder of pleasure sparking up her spine.

She tasted herself on his tongue, tangy and tart, and she broke away from the kiss with a choked moan.

“Your cunt feels so good,” he breathed against her lips, his breath sweet and hot, “I’m not going to last.”

She knew what that meant, knew she wasn’t going to either. She had never orgasmed before, and now she was going to do it twice – once just from his cock alone. She never imagined feeling powerful or desirable ever again, never imagined a cock feeling good inside her, and she certainly never thought she’d want a man’s seed inside her either. It brought tears to her eyes.

She had hated Ramsay’s. She had always washed immediately, tried to flush it out. She had felt dirty and soiled and she thanked the Gods her womb had never quickened.

Now, she begged for it.

“Fill me up, Jon,” she breathed against his mouth, “give me your babe.”

_“Gods.”_

He bucked up, pounding into her from below as a sob of pleasure caught in her throat. One, two, three more thrusts and she was there, falling off the edge and tumbling into an orgasm so intense, she swore she saw stars. He was right behind her, letting out a low growl as his cock pulsed and spurted, coating her insides with warm cum.

It seeped out of her when she lifted herself off his softening cock.

She collapsed onto his chest, a breathless laugh escaping her.

“Sansa?”

She was too exhausted to even reply, a little hum leaving her throat instead.

His voice was lined with amusement when he casually gave a tug on his binds and asked—

“Do you think you can untie me now?”


End file.
